A Cop Walks Into A Bar
by AshWolf Forever
Summary: One-shot Trade. Lassiter needs a break, and heads to out for a drink at a local tavern. Only who should he find at the bar but Spencer himself, three sheets to the wind. He can't let this chance to expose the faux psychic get away.


A Cop Walks Into A Bar

A Psych One-shot Trade by AshWolf Forever

_ This is the beginning of a bad joke,_ thought Lassiter as he pushed open the door. _A cop walks into a bar… _He wasn't even sure why he was here. It wasn't like drinking would solve anything. Then again, cleaning his guns for the thousandth time didn't really seem that interesting. And there was nothing on TV but reruns of _The Mentalist_; he really didn't need reminding of a certain fake psychic.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!" said a voice he knew too well. "Arnold better than Sylvester?"

Lassiter looked up to see Spencer seated at the bar, having a discussion with the bartender over some childish interest; some movie from the sound of it. He groaned; just what he needed – to run into Santa Barbara's phony psychic. What was with all the garbage fate kept throwing at him?

"Sylvester could out-act Arnold any day," added Spencer, and something about his voice caught the detective's attention. Spencer was drunk. "I mean, he all but admitted it in _Last Action Hero._"

"You're bringing that up as a counter-argument?" replied the bartender. "Pal, it was his best role _because it didn't happen_."

A smile slowly spread across Lassiter's face. Here was his chance; alcohol was as good as a truth serum. If he could just get Spencer to admit he was faking in front of witnesses… He walked over to the bar, the smile on his face enough to make the Cheshire Cat jealous. "Hello, Spencer," he said.

Spencer turned toward him and smiled. "Lassie! Perfect timing! Maybe you can settle a dispute for me and my buddy here?" He gestured to the bartender with his almost empty glass.

For once, the nickname didn't bother him. Let Spencer call him a female dog; he'd get the last laugh. "Where's Guster?" he asked, looking around for some sign of the faux psychic's shadow. He didn't need him screwing up this chance. "Couldn't he settle it?"

Spencer's face fell. "He's got a date."

He supposed that explained why Spencer was alone. No one in their right mind would bring him along on a date. This line of thinking was hazardous and got Carlton's mind on his screwed up love life. He turned to the bartender and ordered a drink, making a mental note not to have too many as he wanted to be sober enough to convince Spencer to spill his secrets.

"Idiot making a date today," continued Spencer. "Seriously? I mean, we _met_ today! Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Look, pal," said the bartender, "if you're gonna start whining again about your boyfriend missing your anniversary I'm outta here."

Lassiter choked on his drink. This conversation was just… did he really just hear that?

"Dude, not funny," replied Spencer. "You okay, Lassie? You look a little green around the gills."

Carlton managed to clear his throat and nod. "So what foolish argument are you two having?" he asked, gesturing to the bartender with his glass.

"Who's better: Arnold Schwarzenegger or Sylvester Stallone?"

Carlton swirled his drink in its glass as he thought of an answer. "Neither," he replied, taking a sip. "Eastwood would kick both of those –"

"Hey now, man!" said the bartender. "Don't go having a Mel Gibson moment."1

Carlton didn't get to respond as at that moment Spencer inexplicitly burst into tears.

"Gus jokes sometimes we're like Martin and Roger," he said, though the words were only half-intelligible. "I'm the crazy white guy dragging the down-to-earth black guy into trouble."

The bartender rolled his eyes and walked down to the end of the bar.

He didn't know what to say. He had never seen Spencer lose his cool this bad before. Not even when O'Hara had been kidnapped. At a loss, he fell back to his automatic response. "Spencer!" he barked. "Get yourself together. So Guster's got a date. It's not the end of the world!"

"But Lassie," Spencer began, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "You don't under –"

"Look Spencer," he said, slamming his glass down on the bar, heedless of the mess it made. "I am not a dog, and I'm sure as hell not planning on rescuing Timmy from the well for the thousandth time."

Spencer got a hard look in his eyes. "You're sure barking a lot, _Lassie_." He clicked his fingers. "Down, boy!"

Carlton glared at him and opened his mouth, but before her could say a word the bartender returned and slammed two shot glasses on the bar. Both men jumped in surprise.

"You two settle this like men," said the bartender, setting a full bottle of Jack Daniels beside the glasses. "Whoever drinks the most shots, wins. Loser buys."

"You've got to be kidding," said Carlton.

Spencer looked at him with an evil grin. "What's wrong, Lassie? Afraid I'll send you home with your tail between your legs?"

Carlton clenched his fists. Well, maybe he could make this work after all. "I win, you tell the truth about your mumbo-jumbo act."2

"How about if you win, I never call you 'Lassie' again," countered Spencer, "And if I win, you never complain about it again."

"Done," he replied. There was always the chance Shawn would let it slip anyway. "You're going down, Spencer."

Shawn slapped his hand on the bar with a goofy grin on his face. "Set 'em up, Sam."

The bartender – whose shirt read "Sam" now that he looked – set a shot each in front of them and leaned back against the wall with his arms across his chest. "3… 2… 1…"

Both men threw the shots back at the same moment. The whiskey burned, but Carlton kept a straight face; Shawn, not so much. He grinned, and said, "What's wrong, Spencer? Too much for you?"

"It's no pineapple juice," muttered Shawn, coughing a bit. "Again, Sam."

Hours later, a pyramid of glasses sat in front of them. Carlton threw back his most recent shot, slid the glass over to Sam, and turned toward the faux psychic. "You're turn, Spencer."

Shawn picked up his glass with a shaky hand. He started to lift it to his lips, and then started to lean sideways.

Carlton calmly reached out and took the glass before Shawn fell off the barstool and tossed back the shot.3 No sense in wasting good whiskey. As he got out his phone to call Guster to pick up the passed-out pseudo-psychic, he had to admit he felt sorry for Spencer. The boy was going to have one hell of a headache in the morning. Thankfully they had the whole weekend to recover.

1 Don't have a problem with Mel, and Lassie was just going to call them losers.

2 Inspired by islashlove's bet in a story

3 Got this from an episode of _Cybil_


End file.
